Blank Ned's Discworld Filks
by Blank Ned
Summary: A collection of filks, written by myself, generally with some kind of story built up round them. NEW! Includes 'There She Goes'.
1. She's Eclectic

'**She's Eclectic'**

Personally, I blame samvimes for this. His version of 'Every Little Thing' inspired me to put this down in writing. It has actually been brewing in my head for several months now. That is, literally, how sad I am.

Aaanyways, this is a version of an Oasis song. If you don't know who Oasis are, then… well, they're a band from Manchester who were the spearhead of the 'Britpop' movement in the UK in the Nineties. To show how big they were, some of their better-known songs even became known to me, who as a chorister for six years of my pre-adolescent life had about as much contact with the outside world as the average mouldy, unmatchable black and pink leopardskin-print sock. I didn't hear 'She's Electric', the song this filk is based on until several years later, when I gained a copy of one of their albums. Of course, the Discworld doesn't have electricity, so 'Electric' became 'Eclectic'. Other than that, I found this song (with a few lyrics changed) fitted Angua perfectly. And personally, anyone from an aristocratic background whose friends include a reformist female dwarf, a troll who carries a weapon more destructive than a good portion of the US Army, a Duke, a humble Watch sergeant, a human raised as a dwarf and Nobby Nobbs could most certainly be described as 'eclectic' in my opinion.

Oh, and for a bit of fun, I've built a kind of story around it. Well, I say 'a bit'. It actually ended up taking about five pages of Microsoft Word.

Sorry.

So, here it is, Blank Ned's first filk. I'd use the exits about now…

Warning: This is nowhere near as good as my previous effort, 'No Wonder'. Please don't hate me for it. Also I plan to write at least one more filk. You probably will hate me for that. And for the creation of Perry Trapchett.

Disclaimer: This is just a stop gap while I write some proper stuff/await the contractor's estimates on that temple. The character Edward Blankwall is mine, as are Perry Trapchett, McLiverstockworth, the Mizzendens and Insle. Everyone and everything else belongs to the Great Prophet Pratchett. 'She's Electric' belongs to Oasis and the Gallagher brothers.

* * *

SHE'S ECLECTIC

Constable Edward Blankwall strummed his guitar aimlessly. Once again, he'd got a good tune. He just couldn't write any words for it. He stared at the chord sheet in front of him. It had all the chords, but the space for the words was blank – pun not intended.

Now, if only he had some inspiration…

He was so lost in thought that he was only aware of anything else when a hand waved in front of his unfocused eyes. He shook himself back to awareness and looked up at Sergeant Angua, standing over him and carrying a pile of books similar in size to the one he himself hauled round in his free time.

"Hey, Angua."

Angua dumped the books on the canteen table and smiled. "Evening, Edward. D'you mind if I sit in here?"

Edward shrugged. "Fine by me. You'll have to put up with my yodelling and rather awful guitar-playing, mind."

"Oh, come off it, Edward," said Angua, half-seriously. "You're possibly the best singer in the Watch."

"No," said Edward, grinning mischievously, "I'm the _loudest_ singer in the Watch. There's a difference."

"Edward, hardly anyone else can hold a tune. There's Lance-Constable McLiverstockworth – he's okay – and the Mizzendens and Constable Insle are quite decent, but you're more experienced than them." Angua sat back in her chair.

"Not the same as being better than them, is it?" said Edward.

"Oh, now that's a watchman's answer if ever I heard one."

Edward was silent for a few seconds. "Was that intended as a compliment?" he replied, grinning still wider.

"Oh, do shut up Edward."

"Yes sarge," said Edward in a voice about as serious as a Fool was funny. He took a glance at the pile of books Angua had put on the desk in front of her. He picked up one from the top of the pile, and whistled.

"_Terra Menisca?_" he said. "I didn't know you liked Perry Trapchett, Angua."

"Edward," sighed Angua, "you spent so long either rabitting on about him or with your nose in one or other of his books or writing fanfiction-" she spoke the word like some kind of disease "-that I thought I might as well see what all the fuss was about."

Edward declined to comment, instead reaching over to look at the book underneath. "_Catch-24?_" He sounded surprised. "And an autobiography of the composer Mozeley?" He raised an eyebrow at her. "Rather eclectic tastes, if you don't mind me saying so."

"And?" said Angua, a shade coldly.

Edward didn't seem to hear her. "Eclectic…" he muttered. "Yeah, that might work…" He started strumming the guitar, singing loudly and tunefully over it.

"Sheeeeeeeeee's eclectic," he sang,

"She's in a wa-atch-house full of eccentrics,

She's done thing I never expected,

Dum de dum dum dum."

He stopped playing, and beamed at her. "Well, what do you think?" he said. "You don't mind that it's about you, do you?" he added cautiously.

"Edward," said Angua, "When you're a werewolf, you feel any song that doesn't boil down to 'let's marinade them in molten silver!' has to be a favourite."

Edward suppressed a laugh.

"Here," said Angua, taking the sheet of paper from in front of him. "Hmmm… I _think_ it'd sound a bit better if you changed 'watch-house' to 'family'. It goes a bit better with the tune if you use three syllables for three notes than if you split two syllables over three."

"Really?" said Edward, a note of surprise in his voice. "You sure you don't mind my saying that about your family?"

"Edward," said Angua, "My family are _werewolves_. We can see smells! We give them _colours_, for pity's sake! Those of us that don't go insane in one way or another are those who renounce the wolf as fully as possible, and even then it gets to us in its own little ways. In those circumstances, 'eccentric' is practically a compliment."

"Ri-ight," said Edward, in a voice that meant 'Okay, moving very swiftly on no don't turn around and look nothing to see here'. He crossed out 'watch-house' and pencilled in 'family' under it. "Now for the next bit…"

He stared at the page for a while, muttering under his breath and tapping the pencil on his chin, before throwing it down in disgust and slouching back in the chair.

"Writer's block?" said Angua half-interestedly from behind her copy of _Terra Menisca: Evening Patrol_.

"No," said Edward. "I always have writer's block when it comes to writing lyrics. This is sheer embarrassment at writing lyrics in front of someone else."

"Even the person the song is about?"

"_Especially_ the person the song's about." Edward grinned sheepishly. "Sorry, but it's just the way I am, I'm afraid…"

"Look, would you like me to give you a hand?" said Angua, not unkindly, setting the book aside. "I wouldn't mind – I mean, I only bought _Evening Patrol_ today, and I need something to read during the journey to Borogravia tomorrow."

"Why don't you try putting it down?" said Edward, in the tone of someone who is asking the question of someone who has asked it of him umpteen times before.

"Well, I've tried that, but when I do it calls to me and forces me to pick it up and carry on reading," replied Angua, in the tone of someone giving an answer they've heard several times before.

Edward grinned again. Then he sighed. "I wish I could play guitar better," he muttered.

"You're not too bad."

"Oh, I'm not a _bad_ guitarist," said Edward, "but I'm horrendously unskilled. I mean, compared to some of the great Music With Rocks In guitarists like Imp y Celyn or Johni Handtrix or Jack Coakston or even Tim Carter or Jimmy Blurr, I don't play the guitar, I just bash it against a table and try and get sound out of it."

Angua hid a smirk.

"Aaanyways," said Edward, "any more ideas for lyrics?"

"Hmmm." Angua clicked her tongue between her teeth. "Well… we could always continue the family theme – say, the next verse could be about my sister, for example."

Edward's face contorted in an expression of worry, concern and trying to step nervously around a subject he had long regarded as taboo.

"Are you sure?" he said. "I mean, your sister… she's… she's-"

"Yes, Edward, she's dead," said Angua. "But then, so's her killer, so I personally think that my wounds will have healed by now."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

"You're really sure?"

"Yes!"

"You're really really _re-_"

"Edward, if you ask me again I swear I will lose my temper."

"Yes sarge."

Carrot poked his head around the door.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked, in his big, honest manner.

"No," sighed Edward. "Just writer's block."

"Well, I could give you a hand if you like," said Carrot.

Edward brightened. "Really? You'd do that?"

"Sure. What're you writing?"

"Er… can we go somewhere private?" said Edward.

"I suppose," replied Carrot uncertainly.

"Good. Good." Edward beckoned to a corner. "Just over there, I think."

There followed a whispered conversation between the two men, of which Angua caught only snatches, like "-are you sure she's going to be-" and "-underestimate her too much-". Eventually, they stood up, and Carrot turned and left, pausing only to bend and kiss Angua on the cheek. When he had gone, she turned to Edward and said "What was that about?"

"Oh, nothing," he replied, grinning cheekily. "Carrot's just agreed to write some lyrics for me, is all."

"And?" snapped Angua, feeling the irritation build.

"Hmm? Oh, sorry, Angua, I can't really tell you. Carrot wants it to be a surprise."

"But I'm leaving for Borogravia tomorrow!"

Edward shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "That's just the way it goes. Anyway, it should be finished by the time you get back. Think of it as something to look forward to."

* * *

Angua stretched, and took a deep breath. It was good to be back, even if it was Ankh-Morpork. It was early evening, and the late summer sunset turned the sky shades of pink and gold and orange against the blue dome and the white clouds. The Watch House was deserted – everyone was either on patrol or in the Bucket, where Edward had seemed to have organised a 'Welcome Back Having Safely Stopped The Borogravians And Zlobenians Massacring Each Other' gig by some of the various music-with-rocks-in bands that had started up in the Watch, most of which he seemed to be a member of anyway. She desperately tried to hold off the urge to go and watch, but eventually she had to give in and go down there.

She slid in the door of the Bucket just as one of the bands were finishing their set. Andre was playing a piano that, by the look of it, had had the hell bashed out of it, probably by him. Ping was thrashing a drumkit. Corporal Keenside – new dentures firmly in place – was warbling a pleasant, if high, vocal melody. Angua bought a beer and sat at the back. The pub was surprisingly full – even Mister Vimes and his family were there, sat at the front, in what must have been a celebratory family outing.

Edward – in the role of compere for the night – stepped up to the front of the stage. "Okay, thanks for that guys. Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for – Eagre!" As the thunderous applause died away, he spoke again. "And now, we have a very special performance for you – tonight, for the first time, here in this bar, Palms are going to perform their newest hit – with a drummer on lead vocals for a change. So without further ado, ladies and gentle men, put your hands together for – Palms!"

The band filed out onto the stage, carrying their instruments. Carrot was last on, but instead of his drumsticks, he carried a guitar. He strode up to the front of the stage and cleared his throat. "Uh, ladies and gentlemen, dwarfs and trolls, I'd like to dedicate this next song to the safe and successful return of Mister Vimes and his entourage from Borogravia. This is a new song, written by Constable Blankwall and myself, and it's called 'She's Eclectic'.

The band launched into a bewildering sequence of arpeggios, then a thumping riff kicked in. Angua was mildly surprised to find herself enjoying it. Edward sat himself down in the seat next to her, and she had just enough time to give him a short wave and a half-smile before Carrot started singing. He didn't have a brilliant singing voice – even Edward had to admit he was better than Carrot – but he could carry a tune, and with a good enough tune that was all he really needed to do.

"She's Eclectic,

She's in a family full of eccentrics,

She's done things I never expected,

And I need more time.

She had a sister,

And there's a good reason I missed her,

And on the palm of her hand there's a blister,

And I need more time.

And I want you to know,

Got my mind made up now,

But I need more time,

And I want you to say,

'D'you know what I'm saying?',

But I need more,

'Cos I'll be you and you'll be me,

There's lots and lots for us to see,

Lots and lots for us to do,

She is eclectic,

I'm eclectic too!

She had a brother,

They didn't get on with each other,

I don't fancy her mother,

And I'm sure she don't like me!

She's got a cousin,

In fact she's got 'bout a dozen,

She's no good with an oven,

But it's nothing to do with me.

And I want you to know,

Got my mind made up now,

But I need more time,

And I want you to say,

'D'you know what I'm saying?',

But I need more,

'Cos I'll be you and you'll be me,

There's lots and lots for us to see,

Lots and lots for us to do,

She is eclectic,

I'm eclectic too,

I'm eclectic too,

I'm eclectic too,

I'm eclectic too!"

As the applause grew to a storm, Angua raised an eyebrow and stared at Edward, who flinched and said "Sorry".

"Why are you apologising, Edward?" she said.

Edward was clearly unbalanced by such a suggestion. "Er… erm… uh…" he stuttered.

Angua smiled. "The only thing I'm worried about," she said, "is when you're going to write me a song about Carrot."

Edward grinned, relieved. Both of them turned back to the front and added their own applause to the storm that surrounded them.

* * *

Well, that's one filk for you. If enough people don't feel it's too awful (and how will I know this? Why, through reviews, dear readers!), there are a few other filks I've got lined up, plus some possible original songs. They won't all have such a ponderous story surrounding them, I assure you. As always, don't hesitate to tell me where you think I'm going wrong. Personally, I'm not too happy with this mess of a fanfic, but it's taken me several weeks to get this far and I'm not going back now. 


	2. Kiss Me The CarrotFilk

**Kiss Me**

You asked for it, so here it is: the Angua filk! This one is based on 'Kiss Me' by Sixpence None The Richer, a band about whom I know just about nothing – as far as I know, this was their only hit, but it's a good 'un. I think it was first released in the mid-Nineties, though I'm not sure – again, my choristerly isolation from mainstream society is to blame for that – but it seems to have hung around on the fringes of the music scene ever since. It was played at a royal wedding, on Stars in Their Eyes (note to people who've never seen it – imagine American Idol, but with people who can actually sing) and just recently, the video popped up on one of those irritating music video channels that only ever show about five videos 90 of the time, then bungs every single video it ever showed into a 'One-Off Special Weekend!' But I digress. There isn't so much of a story round this one, just a bit at the start and the end. At least, that's the plan.

Disclaimer: The song 'Kiss Me' is the property of Sixpence None The Richer. The Discworld and the characters Angua, carrot, Vimes and Visit are all copyright of Terry and Lyn Pratchett. Edward, Chris and Sean are all my fault – I mean, property, property, sorry…

KISS ME

Sergeant Angua, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, was not happy. She was wet, she was cold, she was on her own and the moon was in its gibbous waning stage. Trust her to get the riverfront beat right in the middle of a Sektober squall!

She shivered as a gust of wind lifted some water out of a gutter and dumped it down her neck. She glared at the offending channel, muttering, then shrieked as the gutter collapsed, dousing her in a torrent of freezing water. _That's it,_ she thought. She pushed her sopping hair out of her eyes and headed for the watch house.

Ten minutes later, she pushed open the door of Pseudopolis Yard and squelched up to the charge desk, being manned on this occasion by Corporal Christopher Ottersneeze, who glanced at her over his copy of _Terra Menisca: Thaumaturgical Hues._ "Little damp out, is it?" he said with a half-smile on his face.

Angua glared, but before she could reply she heard something – or rather didn't hear something – which had been accompanying her for her entire patrol. She glanced out of the window just as the final raindrops bounced down. The wind died down, the sun came out and, against all meteorological evidence, a rainbow arced across the sky. She cursed something in Krullian+ which was unprintable for both decency and spelling reasons. "Damned weather! Look, I'm going to get washed. I'll write my report when I'm finished." She squelched across the charge room and up the stairs, leaving a trail of water behind her.

She was mid-way across the landing when a crash issued from a nearby room and the door shook on its hinges. It was briefly followed by Constable Edward Blankwall. "Stay there," he said. "I'll go and get a screwdriver-"

He cannoned into Angua, and the two of them landed on the floor in a quite compromising position. Angua pushed the constable off and stood up. Dust from the floor was now sticking to her soaked elbows, legs and hair, while Edward had a huge dark patch covering the whole front of his shirt and most of the front of his trousers.

"This is just one of those days, isn't it," muttered Angua. "Next thing, the floor's going to give way."

Edward looked sheepish. "Sorry, Angua," he said. "I should've looked where I was going." He smiled, which was slightly unnerving. "Oh, by the way – I've written that song."

"What song?" said Angua. "Look, can it wait till after I've had a wash? I don't want to spend the rest of today smelling like a drainpipe."

Although it might have been waning gibbous. Whatever, it was just after full moon, okay?

Given the natives' attitude to foreigners, and the complexities of its written language, Krullian has always been a useful language to swear in. This is also the reason why I intend to learn to swear in Welsh, Russian, French, Spanish, Irish, German, Elvish (Tolkein) and Dwarfish (Pratchett). The fact that they're good to swear in, not that they're hard to write or that all those people hate foreigners.

Half an hour later, Angua knocked on Edward's door. Edward opened the door and held it open while she entered.

"I'm afraid there's not a lot of space available," he said, which was understatement in the extreme. Lance-Constable Sean McLiverstockworth was sat at one end of Edward's bed, holding his guitar. Constable Visit was sat on a chair, holding his own guitar. Edward's guitar had been laid down on the desk, along with his harmonica.

"What's all this?" said Angua.

"Edward asked us to play this song for him," said Sean.

"I wouldn't have thought you would want to play in a popular music group, Visit," said Angua.

The Omnian shrugged. "A talent for music is given to me by the grace of Om, and should not be wasted."

"Now, do you want to actually hear this song, or not?" said Edward.

"Okay-"

"Great. I'll sing your part for now, but tell me-"

"Whoa! Hold on a second!" cried Angua. "Do you really expect me to sing?"

"Uh… yes?" said Edward.

"_I can't sing, Edward!_"

"Why not? Carrot managed it with your song, and he couldn't even hold a note when I first arrived. Just give it a go. Please?"

Angua sighed. "Oh, alright…"

Rehearsals went on for the next month. Angua was reluctant to sing at first, but after all three of her bandmates tried it, she finally agreed to a trial. She hadn't noticed anything different until the small crowd which had gathered below the window started applauding.

After a month had passed, Edward mentioned something. "There's going to be another gig at the Bucket at the start of December. Would you lot be up for playing this song then?"

"We'll need a name," said Visit.

"The Plagiarisers!" said Sean.

"Nah, the Musician's Guild come down like a ton of trombones if they even get a sniff of artistic impersonation," said Edward.

While the other three argued over the merits of The Naps, Nameless For Now and The Mighty Pencil Enforcers, Angua stared out of the window at the street below. As she watched, a man dropped a ten-penny piece, which rolled away and disappeared through a gap in one of the city's ancient drains. Despite the fact that it was obviously gone, he spent several minutes trying to retrieve it, using a length of wood, two paperclips and a Sonky.

_Ankh-Morpork citizens,_ she thought. _Lose ten pence and they're all the poorer for it-_

A flash of inspiration hit her, and she couldn't help but laugh.

"What's funny?" said Edward.

"Tell me, Edward," said Angua, "how do you feel about Tenpence All The Poorer?"

This kind of contraption never works. I know this from personal experience. Except without the Sonky, obviously.

It was the second week of December. Mr Cheese had at least made something approaching an effort towards putting up Hogswatch decorations, although he'd had to take down the tinsel after Edward had threatened him with prosecution under the Bad Taste Act of 1843.

Carrot was sat at a table not far from the stage, a half-empty glass of milk in front of him. Mister Vimes was sat across the table from him, with Christopher sat between the two.

"How come Palms aren't playing this time round?" said Chris.

"Oh, we don't want to play every single time," said Carrot. "People would get bored of us."

Vimes took another sip of his lemonade. "I just don't understand the appeal of some of this music. That band who were on last month – Anger At The Engine-"

"Yes, sir, they were awful," said Chris. "Their guitars sounded like a cat going to the toilet through a sewn-up bum inside the Ablutorium."

"I still don't think my hearing's recovered," muttered Vimes.

Reg, who was the night's compere, clapped his hands together for silence, causing one of them to droop weirdly. "Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen, dwarfs and trolls – and undead," he said, "and a very warm welcome to the December Bucket Gig. Tonight's first act is…" he picked up a sheet of paper with his drooping hand, which fell off. "Damn." He picked it up in his other hand, still with the other hand attatched. "Yes, tonight's first act is Tenpence All The Poorer! Big hand, everyone, for Tenpe- oh, yes, it's _sooo_ funny, isn't it?" he snapped, as a ripple of laughter ran round the bar.

"Tenpence All The Poorer?" said Vimes, leaning over the table as he applauded. "Isn't that Angua's band?"

As if in answer, Angua, Visit and Sean strode on to the stage. Angua was wearing a shimmering blue dress, while the two men were wearing matching black suits, but Sean wore a red waistcoat, cummerbund and tie, while Visit's were green.

"Where's Edward?" muttered Vimes. Chris, who was the only one who could hear him, shrugged.

"We'll just be a sec," said Sean, "we need to tune our guitars."

_Pling. _Sean confirmed his guitar fully tuned.

_Pling._ Visit did the same.

"Ready?" said Angua.

The two men swung into a lazy rhythm that echoed round the bar. It was a haunting melody – it sounded almost childlike. Vimes was so immersed that he nearly didn't notice Angua start singing.

"Kiss me, after the night shift's ended,

Nightly, outside my brown, brown room,

Ring, ring, ring your watchman's bell,

You wear some new clothes and I'll wear my dress.

So kiss me,

Out in the milky twilight,

We'll leave,

Out through the moonlit door,

Take my proffered paw,

In your soft hand and we'll watch the stars and

Silver moon turning,

So kiss me."

Suddenly a harmonica sprang up from one side of the stage. Everyone in the room craned their necks to try and see around the curtain without getting out of their chair, lest the Bucket suddenly develop a parallel-universe James Pooley and John Omally. By almost shoving Chris out of his chair and dislocating his shoulder, Vimes could just see Edward, in black tux with white waistcoat and cummerbund, perched on a ledge in one corner with his harmonica. Unfazed by the sudden shift in attention, Angua was still singing.

"Kiss me, outside the Long Wall watch house,

Hold me, in your embracing arms,

Swing, swing, swing your foot's instep,

We'll make our way to Pseudopolis Yard.

So kiss me,

Out in the milky twilight,

We'll leave,

Out through the moonlit door,

Take my proffered paw,

In your soft hand and we'll watch the stars and

Silver moon turning,

So kiss me."

As the last notes faded away into the distance, the Bucket erupted into whoops and roars the likes of which had not been seen since it was announced that Mr Cheese was reducing the cost of a pint by thrippence. Vimes turned to Carrot, only to find that he wasn't there any more.

Chris nudged him in the back, and pointed to the door, which slammed shut.

"I think they're just off to go and look at the moonlight, corporal" Vimes said, smiling.

Chris grinned at him, and sipped at his pint. "Oh, somehow I get the feeling they'll be a bit too busy for that, sir," he said.

Given his poor taste in music, and a general desire to resemble Carrot as little as possible, Edward never usually invoked little-known Acts, but his loathing for tinsel over-ruled that.

However, he failed to announce that this was only for every pint on a tray of 20, which meant you paid 35.00 for drinks no-one else would want.

Ugh. Not too happy with that ending. Doesn't seem completely IC for Carrot and Vimes. Still, I must admit I felt no other way of ending this story quickly. Sorry.

Shout-outs! Just something a little different now:

As the din died down, Edward strode up to the front.

"Er, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "there are just a few things I'd like to say." He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and cleared his throat.

"Firstly, Egleriel. I'm surprised you prefer it to my other work. That said, I'm also flattered. Keep writing. I must admit, you're one of the best writers I can think of. You're certainly one of my favourites."

"Now, Jess Idres. As you say, ask and ye shall receive, no? And as for the best sugar a gal could get… aww, shucks, I'm all embarrassed now!"

"And finally, Frosteh. Now how could I forget my first ever reviewer? Just two things – one, forget Redwall. We need you here! And two – aaagh! I killed my first ever reviewer!"

Just one final author's note: Bizarrely enough, I heard 'She's Electric' on the radio in the car on my way home from school today. I NEVER hear songs I like on the radio.

And finally, a request. Should any of you read this, I must ask you a favour. I want to know what I should do for my next story. There are the following options:

An alternative history of Ankh-Morpork – what if the Civil War had been a draw, and the city had been split down the river? A la Harry Turtledove.

A bit of background information on some of my characters – which may be a bit un-cannonlike for the first few chapters, while I set the scene, should you pick it.

Something involving the Carpet People on Discworld (NOT 'the Carpet People turning up on Discworld' – the Carpet People already existing on Discworld).

A 'What happens next?' story involving the Watch and characters from Going Postal.

Random Vignettes.

Now, I'm not too sure on policies, so email your responses to me using the address in my profile. But please still review me here! I'll probably end up doing all of them eventually, I just want to know which one to do first.


	3. Morporkian Idiot

**Morporkian Idiot**

While I'm waiting for more responses to my request regarding what I should do next, I've decided to start writing another filk. This one, if you hadn't guessed from the title, is based on 'American Idiot' by Green Day. If you've never really heard of them, they're a three-piece pop-punk band from the Bay Area of California. The lead singer, Billie-Joe Armstrong, described their new album 'American Idiot' as 'a rock-opera', after which one of my friends described him as 'the most pretentious person ever'. The song 'American Idiot' was my first experience of Green Day, and was described by NME magazine as 'their best since 'Dookie'' (released in 1994 – three guesses why I missed out on it…). What else to say about Green Day? Well, the bassist (Mike Dirnt) has peroxide-blonde hair, the drummer's name is Tre Cool (?) and they swear a lot. I've tried not to swear so much in this.

Shout outs:

Egleriel: I probably will do 'Our Time Is Running Out' at some point. I'm not too sure about it being a CA angst-filk, though. And hurry up and update one of your stories! I'm itching for something to read! (BTW – am I the only person who thinks 'Butterflies and Hurricanes' is a subtle Discworld reference?)

Frosteh: Erm… are you _sure_ you want to marry me? I mean, okay, you like my writing, but you should know, I bite my nails, I can't cook, and I play the trombone. Loudly. At night. And hurry up and update! Please!

Jess Idres: Humour is effective at times, you know. Regarding the tux, I have to take it back if I don't get more reviews, but I really like it (I mean, sporting allegiances mean I could NEVER wear blue if my good friend Sean was wearing red (and he really is my good friend Sean (what – I do have SOME original characters, you know – I just haven't used them yet)), so I went for white). And as for Carrot and Angua… well, suffice to say there's a reason they don't appear in this filk… snigger

Blank Ned: Thanks for pointing out to me about the lack of sensible footnotes. I'm surprised no-one else noticed that (including me). Wait… that IS me!1)

1) So it's corny! SO SHOOT ME! No, I wasn't being literal… no, no, don't point that at me! No, no, put it down – AAAARGGGHHHH!

Note: The song 'American Idiot' is property of Green Day. Discworld and its characters are all the property of Terry Pratchett. Any that aren't Pterry's are mine.

* * *

MORPORKIAN IDIOT 

"Ankh-Morpork! Citie of One Thousand Surprises! The only place in the world where someone will buy food from CMOT Dibbler more than once! A proud, prosperous place! The premier commercial centre on the planet! Home of Distressed Pudding!"

"Do we _have_ to do this, sarge?" muttered Constable Robert Insle.

"Now, now, constable, you know what Commander Vimes says," replied Sergeant Christopher Ottersneeze. "Someone has to keep an eye on the soapbox speakers in Sator Square, and this week it just happens to be our turn."

"But it's cold!" said Constable Sean McLiverstockworth, who was yet to learn that being cold does not necessarily mean you will die in the next hour.

"It's not that bad," replied Chris, who was privately desperate to get back to the Watch House and a nice cup of cocoa.

"Bloody stupid Morporkians wouldn't know sense if it kicked 'em in the nadgers," muttered Sean.

Chris had a strong sense of duty, but this was overruled by a powerful sense of self-preservation. "Y'know, it is a little nippy out," he said hurriedly. "Doubt there'll be any crowd trouble today" – _at least, there won't be unless you two don't shut yer traps_ – "why don't we get back for some hot drinks?"

"Finally, a sign of your famous brain, Chris," snapped Sean.

"That's Sergeant Ottersney to you, constable," replied Chris. "Now let's get back quick, okay?"

As the three men entered the watch house, they were struck by a wall of warm air. Sergeant Colon was busily feeding the stove in the charge room. Corporal Edward Blankwall was sat behind a desk, wearing a slightly glazed expression. He would not reveal the reason for this for several hours, due to embarrassment. When eventually questioned, he would reveal that he had actually seen Carrot and Angua defy not only the standards of common decency but also several laws of physics in their passion. When questioned further, about how he had come to see this, he replied that it wasn't his fault he was on the landing when they were going at it so hard the door fell out of its frame, he was now scarred for life, and then curled up in the foetal position and began sucking his thumb and rocking backwards and forwards. But for now he spoke only in monosyllables.

"Hey, Eddie," said Chris.

"Mmm," replied Edward, staring at some inner vision, which, judging by the look on his face, he was finding far from pleasant.

"Cuppa?" Chris said, leaning round him to see if he was surreptitiously reading a Perry Trapchett novel.

"Mmm," Edward replied, his expression not changing.

"How's the job going? Written that report yet?" The sergeant waved his hand in front of the other NCO's face, eliciting no response.

"'Ey, Sean," said Rob, as the two constables walked away, "There's gonna be a band practice tonight. Can you make it?"

Sean shrugged. "Don' see why not," he replied. "Is whatsisface free too?"

"Y'mean Ade Traycull?" Rob laughed. "Yeah, he's free. We're rehearsin' in that old ware'ouse 'is dad rents out off Cable Street."

Behind them, Chris asked Edward what was up with him, at which point his friend leapt to his feet, yelled "It wasn't my fault, dammit! I was only there! I WAS ONLY THEEEEEEEEERRRRRE!" and ran upstairs. Chris looked at the rest of the watchmen, who were sitting with their mouths agape.

"What?" he said.

* * *

A musty smell pervaded the warehouse where three young men were making something that people like Edward and Chris and Angua (and possibly even Carrot, you never knew) would call modern, emotional, graphic music, and people like Sergeant Colon, Archchancellor Ridcully and Lord Rust would call 'a godawful talentless racket'. Its creators, however, just thought of themselves as musicians with spunk. 

Robert Insle, lead singer and guitarist, randomly played a few chords. "That was a good 'un, I thought," he said.

Sean McLiverstockworth, bassist, shook his wrist out. "It bloody hurt, I know that," he retorted.

"Shut up, wimp!"

"No!"

"Guys! Guys! Leave it out!" snapped Adrian Traycull, drummer and the odd one out in not being a watchman. The other two let their hackles settle a little, and silence descended like the dust motes caught in the sunlight spearing through the high, small windows.

"You do know that if we play that song in public, we'll be lynched," said Sean.

"Really?" Now it was Rob's turn to retort. "And I thought they'd just offer us a cup of tea and a cream bun-"

"Seriously, Rob, we're gonna have to think about this. We're risking our jobs here – Old Stoneface isn't going to be exactly jumping for joy when he hears this – and our friendships, come to that."

"How?"

"Oh, come on! D'you seriously think Eddie and Chris are gonna stick up for us over the rest of the Watch?"

Rob muttered something under his breath that said exactly what he thought Edward and Chris could do with the rest of the Watch.

"Besides," Sean went on, ignoring him, "you know what ankh-Morpork's like. There's as good a chance we'll be applauded as we'll be gutted like fish."

"Well, what we could do," said Traycull, "is hold the gig on a roof somewhere. Gorilla gigs, I think they're called."

"Why?"

"Well, not to put too fine a point on it, it's because of the Librarian."

"You mean the mo-" Rob began, before Sean slammed a hand over his mouth.

"_Don't. Use. The M-word,_" he hissed. "He'll kill you if you do."

"Why?" Rob, despite having been a Watchman for several months, was yet to learn the all he needed to know to ensure basic survival. Sean considered the only reason he was still alive was due to Herculean efforts on the part of Captain Carrot, Edward and Sergeant Colon to keep him off the streets at times and in places where there were any people.

"Sounds like a plan, this gorilla gigging," he said, ignoring Rob. "We'll have to tell some people, though."

"Who, though?" replied Traycull.

Sean grinned evilly. "Well, I can't wait to see Edward's face when he finds out."

* * *

"WHAT?" 

"We're holding a gig on a rooftop in Dolly Sisters, singing songs about the stupidity of the indigenous population," said Rob calmly. Beside him, Sean groaned and put his head in his hands.

Christopher shook his head. "The pair of you are fools, I'll tell you that. Vimesy'll tell you the same. Edward is probably gonna launch into another 'Blankwall Blaster' – when he comes round."

"How is Edward, by the way?" asked Sean.

Chris looked down at the unconscious form of his colleague, lying where he had passed out through rage-induced high blood pressure upon being told of the planned gorilla gig. He gave the body a kick, which elicited absolutely no response.

"Well, he's not going to be doing any shouting soon," he conceded.

* * *

The day of the gig dawned. In the two weeks between informing the Watch and then, Sean must have lost count of the number of people who'd yelled at him. Edward had spent several hours screaming, shouting, yelling, snapping and, after his voice had entirely worn down, hoarsely whispering at them. Carrot and Angua had both spoken sternly to them. Sergeant Colon had called them 'a pair of stupid buggers', and said that 'all that noise must've melted your brains.' Commander Vimes hadn't said much, but had merely stated (after several seconds, through clenched teeth, and with his cigar in ruins) that what they did in their own time was entirely their own concern, but that then, so was the way in which they chose to be buried, and if they preferred to be so by having a burning building fall on top of them, then they were free to do that too. 

Sean picked up his bass. Rob tuned his guitar in a corner of the room. Traycull was silently air-drumming on the other side of the room. The gig was taking place on the roof of the Exploding Windmill pub in Dolly Sisters, across the road from a tobacconists. The band had been given some pretty stony looks from a young woman with tied-back black hair and a plain grey dress who was smoking outside when they arrived.

Sean checked his watch. "We're on in two," he said to the room in general. He felt terrible inside. His stomach was trying to perform aeronautical aerobatics, and it wasn't helped by the fug of the back room they'd dumped their equipment in. it was a very stable-like fug, except it was thickened by a strong contribution from the beer kegs in the cellar underneath and an even stronger one from the latrines against the outside wall.

"Shall we get out there then?" said Rob, who seemed completely unfazed by the possibility of sudden, instantaneous, democratically-achieved death.

Sean checked his watch. "Give it a minute or two," he said.

* * *

Edward couldn't help feeling conspicuous. Maybe it was that he just didn't look right. He was _trying_ to be nonchalant, he was sure of that. Maybe that was what was making him feel conspicuous. Someone trying to be nonchalant was always obvious because of the effort they were putting into it. Besides, it might just be nerves. 

On the other hand, it might be because he could see Andre in the pub opposite him, Sergeant Angua in the shop to his right, Nobby in the alley across the road and Chris walking down the street. This was bad enough, but the feeling was compounded by the fact that all of them - including himself – were in plain clothes, which was rare enough to have the shock of the unexpected.

There was a commotion on the roof of the pub, and the band appeared, Sean looking nervous, Rob looking his usual goofy self, and Traycull an indistinct shape behind a drumkit.

"A'right ev'ryone," yelled Rob. "We're Octarine Twilight, and we are gonna ROCK. YOUR. WORLD." As he said that, a small section of the crowd just a few years younger than Edward burst into a chorus of hoops and hollers. Rob looked out over the crowd, and spotted Edward. His lips skinned back from his teeth in a predatory grin. Edward returned it with a glare that should, by all rights, have left the other man a small area of smouldering thatch.

Rob, as ever, didn't get the hint. "EDDIE!" he bellowed. "Good to see you mate!"

"Sod you, Insle," Edward called back. Rob just grinned at him, and he felt his blood heat slightly.

"Can we just get on with the music, Rob? Preferably _before_ we get mobbed?" Sean whispered in his ear.

"Why worry?" shrugged Rob. "Eddie's in the crowd."

"Carry on this way and Eddie will be _leading_ the mob. Now get on and sing!"

"Alright, people, this is one of our new songs. It's called 'Morporkian Idiot', and we hope you enjoy it," Rob yelled, striking a chord on his guitar.

Edward's ears shut down. When they started working again, somewhere in one of the limpid pools on the far side of the pain threshold, he could just about follow the catchy riff. _Well, this is it,_ he thought. _We have four minutes left to go…_

After what seemed like an age of riffing, Rob launched into the vocal line.

"Don't wanna be a Morporkian Idiot,

Don't wanna city under the new mania,

Can you hear the sound of hysteria?

The subliminally messed-up Morporkia!"

"Sounds like a cat going to the toilet through a sewn-up bum, if you ask me," said a voice by Edward's ear, accompanied by a gust of cigar smoke.

Edward wheeled round. "Mister Vimes!" he exclaimed, but quietly. "What are you doing here? This is your day off!"

Vimes indicated his lack of uniform, and accompanying wife and pram. "We were out for a weekend stroll, we heard the racket, and my coppering instincts led me here."

"Yes, sir," said Edward, less than believing. Above him, the band thundered on.

"Welcome to the new-found invasion,

All across the Ankhian nation,

Where everything's meant to be O.K.

Newspapers complain of tomorrow,

And we are all meant to follow,

At least that's what we'll argue.

Maybe I am the fag of Morporkia,

All part of a civic agenda,

Now everybody do the propaganda,

And sing along to the Pax Morporkia!"

During the solo, Edward risked a sidelong glance at Vimes. He had no idea of his commander's taste in music, but the other man seemed to be enjoying himself just a little too much. Maybe it was the crowd getting to him.

"Don't wanna be a Morporkian Idiot,"

Vimes seemed to be staring intently at the crowd.

"Don't wanna city under the new mania,"

Edward felt the brush of air as the Commander of the Watch rushed past him.

"Newspapers, clacks and hyste-"

Octarine Twilight suddenly stopped playing at the sight of a man bobbing up and down on the sea of bodies in front of them, supported by the people underneath him. They stared, and then their eyes widened as they recognised His Grace His Excellency Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of Ankh-Morpork City Watch as the individual surfing the wave of humanity.

"Well," said Rob, suddenly lacking his usual bravado, "what do we do now?"

Sean turned to face him, his face devoid of colour. "We run," he replied. "As fast as possible, and we don't stop until we reach Barrerpool."

"When?"

"I think now would be a good idea."

* * *

It was Later. Things had happened. 

Octarine Twilight had returned to the watch House, their break for Barrerpool having been spoiled by them insisting on taking their instruments with them, including Traycull's drumkit. Edward, as the closest officer to the incident, was trying to write up another full report. His original, consisting of "I did not witness said event as I was trying to make my way through the crowd with my hands over my eyes," had been rejected by Captain Carrot for "not being any use".

The Discworld's first crowdsurfer was sitting in his office, drinking a mug of tea.

"I honestly don't know what came over me," he said, quietly.

"Well, sir," said Sergeant Ottersneeze, "I've been looking over some old reports-"

Vimes glared suspiciously at him. "Why?"

"For reasons of precedent, sir," replied Chris smoothly. "You remember the original wave of music with rocks in a few years ago?"

"How could I forget? I spent a whole evening digging through the mud in Hide Park."

"Exactly, sir. Plenty of strange incidents. Exploding organs. Walking pianos. Carrot showing some signs of cunning. You see where I'm going with this?"

"What you're saying," said Vimes slowly, "is that this 'spunk music' had the same effect on me as original music with rocks in did on people back then?"

"Exactly, sir."

"Stop saying that, sergeant."

"Sorry, sir."

* * *

/snickers/ sorry, but I couldn't resist. I just couldn't. Feel free to rant all you want, I know it's OOC. Just please give a reason beyond 'Vimesy wouldn't crowdsurf'. 

As regards all the new characters I've introduced here, part of the reason I have is so that I don't keep on using the same characters over and over again to play different kind of music. I'll try and develop them a bit more over if and when I write that thing about my OC's backgrounds.

Again, thank you everyone who reviewed – and anyone who read it but didn't review (you won't catch anything, you know – I don't bite!).

As regards the next work, I've decided to pull the 'Carpet People' one – there just didn't seem to be enough that could safely be combined with Discworld. And at least two of the others will require some kind of background to my characters to be laid first. Sorry.

P.S. Before I start on any other projects, there will be at least one more filk. It'll likely be much sadder than the others, but it will help to lay a bit of a framework for my characters – not much, but enough.


	4. Sammy Boy

**Sammy Boy**

This is my second attempt at writing this filk. My first attempt went down the drain with the rest of the stuff on my hard drive when my PC crashed, which was infuriating. So, for the second time:

Frosteh: waves hands placatingly Look, I can see you're upset, just put down the big stick thingy that throws metal pellets at people, and maybe we can talk about this, hey? You don't want to talk? Okay… er… well… Hey, look – CA fluff! runs out into street and is promptly mown down by speeding cart driven by Nobby

Insanity Inside: But of course not, then all my efforts would be in vain…

Jess Idres: I didn't know I was IN your head in the first place… And I would like to write a fic with you, very much so!

Egleriel: Just wait till you do AS-levels, love…

ZachariasofBorg: I'm not planning to do any more filks for a while, but there will certainly be more appearances from Palms and Octarine Twilight in the future…

Ozodrac: AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH PLAYING THE TROMBONE? Seriously though, your updates are getting me through my exams – you'd better not quit, 'cos it's my arse Frosteh's gonna come after. Seriously, don't worry about whether you can't spell. I'm an English Language student and I have no idea about half the stuff on the exam. Er…

mcjack: I thank you, my dear fellow!

Aaanyways, as I said before, this is going to be my last filk for a while – not for ever, just while I do some more work on other projects, including trying to get a website set up to host my fics and related projects. There are some things I want to do which might frown upon (no, Jess, not THAT kind of thing), which will hopefully allow everything to make a bit more sense.

Unfortunately, any corrections of the Carrot-filk will have to wait, since I lost all my master-copies in the PC crash. It's been quite a battle merely to get myself to start this one again.

Yeah, so… the filk! It's based on an old Irish ditty called 'Danny Boy', which is a very, very moving song. Edward's reaction to it is very similar to mine last time I tried singing it.

DISCLAIMER: The song 'Danny Boy' is the property of… uh… someone. Not me, anyhow, unfortunately. Likewise, all the characters depicted here, barring Edward and Chris, are the property of Terry Pratchett.

* * *

SAMMY BOY 

It is one of the stranger traits of the human condition that some tiny thing that to most of us would be meaningless can send some people into a deep reverie of 'Days Gone By ™'. It can be something quite unexpected, like the sight of a picture, a scent on the evening air, a word someone mentions in conversation.

In the case of one Edward Blankwall, only-just Corporal, Ankh-Morpork City Watch, it was the weather. It was incredibly puzzling to his colleagues, who saw only effort-free drizzle and the most boring, blank grey sky imaginable, but Edward seemed entranced by it.

"What's up with him?" said a lance-constable, gesturing out of the window.

"Maybe the fact that he's Corporal Blankwall?" said another, causing a snigger to run through the crowd.

"What I tole you 'bout talkin' 'bout seen-ee-ur officers dat way?" bellowed Sergeant Detritus. "You be showin' respect for Corp'ral Blankwall right now, even if he is loony twerp from der stalks!"

"That's a little unfair, Sergeant," said Sergeant Angua.

"Sorry, sarge."

"Barrerpool's not in cabbage country. They mostly eat fish there."

"Huh," muttered Detritus. "Fish's not much better dan _oograh_. Dere's no texture."

"What _is_ he doing out there?" said Angua to herself, as Detritus took the lance-constables out to the coachyard for archery practice. She got up and went to stand at the window. Edward was leaning against the wall of Pseudopolis Yard, staring at the sky.

"Sergeant?" Angua turned and looked into the face of Sergeant-by-a-matter-of-days Ottersneeze.

"Yes, Chris?"

"Have you seen Edward anywhere? Only no-one's seen him all morning, and he hasn't had his cuppa yet…" Chris held up a cup of stone-cold, congealing, orange tea to emphasise his point.

"He's-" Angua was cut off by the door opening, revealing a slightly damp Edward. He walked past them, picked up the stone-cold cup of tea that Chris had put down on the desk, and shuffled upstairs.

"Did you see his face?" said Chris, turning to face Angua.

"Oh, yes," she said. "I didn't have to, but I did."

"Sergeant?" said a voice from behind them.

"Which one?" said Chris, turning round to face Andre, head of the Cable Street Particulars.

"Well, either of you, I suppose," Andre replied. "Look, I was just wondering… is something up with Corporal Blankwall?"

"He doesn't look very good," said Chris.

"Or smell much better," added Angua.

"But we don't know what the problem is," finished Chris.

"Right," said Andre. "Look, do you want me to go up and have a talk with him? Maybe I can get something out of him he wouldn't tell anyone else."

Chris and Angua looked at each other. "Well, I suppose it's worth a try," said Chris.

* * *

Edward lay on his bed, and stared at the ceiling. 

_Why_ had he got so worked up over the damn weather? It was just wind and water and photons, when you got down to it. Nothing to make a fuss over.

But he _had_ made a fuss. And he knew perfectly well why.

He was homesick. He wanted to go home, back to his little house in Altin, to his old job in Barrerpool, the main port of the Bution estuary, on the Hubwards part of the Sto Plains' Rim Ocean coast. It was cooler there, for starters, and you got nicer weather. Nicer fish, too. No-one expected you to eat cabbage, or – he shuddered – _sprouts_. He hadn't even heard of kale before he'd come to live in Ankh-Morpork.

But he couldn't go back, could he…

He flipped over onto his front. Oh, sure, he could walk back into the city as if nothing had happened, go back to his old job, take back his old life – and he'd have lost. He could go back, and by going back he'd admit he'd failed, even if he hadn't. He'd done what he'd set out to do, he was doing well in the Watch, he'd proved he could cut it away from home, and yet…

What was it they used to say? You can take a man out of his city, but you can't take the city out of the man. Something like it, anyway. Going back because of homesickness would be just as much of a defeat as if he'd gone back after three days because Ankh-Morpork smelled funny. It'd be like-

A sharp knock on the door shunted his train of thought through the buffers and down the embankment into the river.

"Who is it?" he called, in a slightly shaky voice.

"Edward? It's me, Andre," said the knocker. "D'you mind if I come in?"

"Yeah, sure, the door's open." Edward sat up and stared out of the window, where the mist had left flecks of condensation on the pane.

Andre came in quietly, and shut the door behind him. Edward didn't look round, but spoke to the window pane.

"Let me guess – Angua asked you to check on me," he said, staring at the horizon.

"Actually, I asked Angua if she wanted me to see what was up with you," said Andre. "Look, you haven't been yourself recently, Edward. Certainly you haven't today. What's go to you?"

Edward still didn't look directly at Andre, but he dropped his gaze and sighed. "It's been about two years since I left home – y'know, Barrerpool, I'd already moved out my parents' house by then. Two years without anything familiar around me, without seeing my friends. I mean, okay, some of my friends have ended up here, and I've made new friends since I arrived, but I want to go back home."

"Why can't you?"

"Because…" Edward faltered. "There're lots of reasons. I'm worried I'd not be able to tear myself away if I went back, for one." And it was true, he thought to himself. It just wasn't honest.

"Right." Judging by the look on his face, Andre wasn't too convinced either. "Well, I've always got a free ear – except when Mister Vimes is using it to listen in on things." He got up to leave, then hesitated. "If there's anything I can do…"

"Yeah, sure," said Edward, staring out of the window. Then something occurred to him. "Actually, there is something you could do…" He went over to a pile of manuscript paper piled on the desk at one end of the room, and pulled out a few sheets of printed music. He turned to Andre and held them out to him.

"Do you have a spare ten minutes?" he said.

* * *

"Where have they gone?" said Angua. 

"I don't know!" said Chris. "I went up to his room and there was no-one there!"

"So what do we do?"

"I don't know!"

Both watchmen sat down. There was a brief pause.

"Vimesy's gonna _kill_ us," said Chris.

"Oh yeah."

"Where are they?"

Both NCOs spun round in their seats. Commander Vimes fixed them with a glare.

"I'll say it again – where are they?"

"We don't know, sir," said Chris. "We've tried everywhere, but-"

Vimes waved him into silence. "What's that?"

Both sergeants fell silent. "It' sounds like a piano," said Angua, "but it's coming… from below us…"

"Does this place have any cellars, sir?" asked Chris.

"There is one," said Vimes. "Yes, I remember now – Andre asked to move his piano into Pseudopolis Yard a few months ago. I said he could if he could find anywhere to keep it. Then he showed me the cellar he'd found the week before."

"So why're we waiting? Let's get down there!"

* * *

"Think you've got it this time?" said Edward. 

Andre made a marking on the sheet which would've been completely incomprehensible to anyone who hadn't been a student of musical theory for half their life. "Whenever you're ready," he said.

Edward nodded, and tapped out the tempo on the piano. Andre started to play just as Vimes, Chris and Angua entered the cellar.

"What's-" Vimes began, but Chris waved him into silence.

Edward took a deep breath, and began to sing. His voice wasn't at its best, but it was plaintive, with an undercurrent of emotion.

"Oh Sammy Boy,

The bells, the bells are ringing,

Across the hills,

And from the riverside.

The spring has gone,

And all the blossoms falling,

It's you, it's you

Must go and I must bide."

Edward's voice was becoming more emotional now. _Remember what you were taught,_ he thought. _Float up to the top notes…_

"But you'll come back when summer's in the city,

Or when the roads are hushed and white with snow,

I will stay here in sun or smog or shadow,

Oh Sammy boy, oh Sammy Boy, I love you so!"

Now Edward's voice was cracking with barely-concealed emotion. _I will not cry,_ he thought to himself. _I will not cry. I will not do what I do every time I sing this song, no matter how many times I've said that in the past…_

"But when you come,

And all the flowers are dying,

If I am dead,

As dead I may well be,

You'll come Groton

Where I shall be lying,

And kneel and say

An Ave there for me."

Edward gave up trying to hold the tears back, and burst out in silent tears, but he was determined to finish the song.

"And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me,

And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be,

For you will bend and tell me that you love me,

And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me."

As the last chords from the piano faded into silence, Edward collapsed, sobbing quietly to himself. Vimes turned to Angua, and was surprised to see tears running silently down her face. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off and mumbled, "I'm fine… it's just my PLT…"

Chris looked up at Vimes, with eyes that were slightly redder than usual, then glanced at Andre, who was blinking furiously. The two of them looked at Vimes again.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked Andre, slightly shakily.

"Wh-why?" said Vimes, surprised at the stutter in his voice.

"It's just… your cheeks…"

Vimes reached up to his face, and realised his cheeks were damp. He'd been crying himself, and he hadn't even realised it.

"It's… nothing," he said. "Probably just… you know… the dust down here… gets in your eyes… Listen, I've got to… I supposed to… I mean," he pulled himself together, "I've got to leave now. It's Lord Selachii's party tonight… can't be late…" He turned to leave, then looked back. "Are you going to be okay with, er…"

Andre looked at Edward and Angua. "We'll manage, sir," he said.

* * *

Several hours later, Edward ventured out from his room, still red around the eyes, but otherwise no different to how he usually looked. He found Chris, Andre, Angua and Carrot in the canteen. He came in quietly, sat down, and stared in front of him for several seconds before he spoke, low and quiet, almost embarrassed. 

"Are you all all right after… before?" he said. There was an assortment of grunts and nods from the others. "I'm sorry about breaking down like that," he went on. "It's just…"

"We know, Edward," said Angua.

Carrot gave him a look. It was a Watchman's look, which said: Okay, something's up and I'm the only one who doesn't know, so let's make sure everyone's up to speed before we go on, okay?

"Why does that song upset you so much?" asked Andre.

"Well, partly it's because it's from home –you know, Barrerpool – and I've been feeling homesick for a while, so, y'know…" Edward trailed off, then started up again. He talked about the great love the two people in the song felt for each other, so great that even death would fail to harm it, even if they never saw each other again…

After a few hours, Andre lit some candles to fight off the gathering gloom. The story of the two lovers wound itself around the five people sat around the table as the candles sank ever lower in their holders. Angua snuggled up close to Carrot, who wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Chris sat a short distance away from his friend, helping out where he couldn't remember things. Andre sat back and listened, until dawn crept up on the world and the story was finished.

* * *

Sybil Vimes was surprised when her husband came home from work early, and shocked that he was so visibly upset. She sent a message to the Selachii's telling them that, due to unforeseen circumstances, they would, alas, be unable to attend, closed the curtains, put a pan on the stove, and made him a big meal. They sat and ate in silence. And, after tea, Vimes went up to his son's room, kissed him goodnight and tucked him in. The he came downstairs and sat in his chair in front of the fire, while his wife sat opposite him, and lit a cigar, and as the shadows lengthened he eventually came out and told her what had happened. They talked long into the night too, and he came over and sat next to her, and they cuddled (JUST cuddled. In the nonperv sense), and they went to bed and slept next to each other, just as they did every night. But tonight, instead of dreaming of boots and rooftop chases and Dibbler's stew, Vimes dreamt of himself and his wife in the tale of Sammy Boy, and of the love which, in many ways, resembled his own.

* * *

Angua and Carrot lay entwined on the small bed in Carrot's room. They were both fully clothed, merely resting before the day began in earnest rather than actually going to bed. But neither was asleep. Quite independent of each other, their thoughts kept turning to Edward's story of Sammy Boy. Neither of them spoke for a while. 

Eventually Angua spoke. "Didn't Edward say there was another version of the song?"

Carrot nodded. "Written from the other perspective. He said that Sammy Boy felt the same way about Livvie Dear as she did about him."

Angua drew herself closer to Carrot. "They were soulmates," she said, quietly.

Carrot nodded, and wrapped his arms around her. "Soulmates," he said.

Neither spoke after that, and neither of them got undressed either. But, as the light filtered in through the window, each resolved that, whatever happened to draw them apart physically, nothing would ever separate them where it mattered most.

* * *

Andre poured a small shot of brandy into his tea, then gestured to Chris with the flask. Chris shook his head, and the other watchman raised an eyebrow at him. 

"You know I hate brandy."

"Your loss."

The two of them sat in silence for a while longer, drinking their respective drinks.

"That song…"

"Yeah?"

"It seemed to get to you a bit."

Chris shrugged. "It's not easy leaving home. Besides, that song's special in Barrerpool. You know 'All The Little Angels'?"

"Of course."

"That song's like the Barrerpuldian equivalent. People can get very emotional singing it." There was another pause. "You weren't exactly dry-eyed yourself."

"Mmm". The next pause went on for several minutes.

"Did it remind you of anyone?"

"There was… my family. My friends. My home. A girl? Well… I think that's for me to know, and you to be told if and when I decide to tell you. What about you?"

"That's none of your business."

The two of them nodded to each other, and carried on drinking.

* * *

Edward stepped out into the street. The mist of the last twenty-four hours had disappeared, and the Rimwards sky was being lit by the rising sun. He stood for a few minutes, watching as the clouds changed from Surgical Appliance Pink to Prescribed Medicine Orange, and then on to Just-This-Side-Of-Tasteful Gold, and he couldn't help but smile. It was cheesy, he knew. He still hurt inside, still longed to go home… but, he reflected, it wasn't all bad, being away from home. And sometimes, even if it couldn't replace what you'd left behind, you could see it long enough to love it in its way. 

He grinned at the sky again, and set off on patrol. As he walked, he felt like whistling, but what? Then a tune floated up from memory.

_Perfect._

He whistled a ditty as he proceeded down Broadway. Any Barrerpuldian within earshot would recognise it as 'Sammy Boy', but it was different now. Rather than it's beautiful mournfulness, it sounded lively and joyful, the sound of love and life and vitality expressed in music. And, whistling gleefully and smiling at the world, Edward Blankwall walked off into the new day.

* * *

Bloody hell, this took me a while. Obviously the exams and the computer crash didn't help… 

This is definitely a love-it-or-hate-it. It's certainly not as funny as the other filks – it's kind of an attempt to make my OC's seem more three-dimensional, and I'm not sure it's worked. Plus there's more kind-of-OOC-Vimes. Again. Anyway, do enjoy. I want to start a real project over the summer, but I will continue to write filks, and there's some other ideas I have that I want to put up, so keep tuned (NOTE TO SELF: Stop using clichés. Also find character to cause pain to a la Rust/Downey).


	5. There She Goes

**There She Goes**

I know, I know, I said I wouldn't write any more filks for a while, but my other fic's caught in a lull and it's an easy substitute to fall back on. Just in case you couldn't tell, the original version of this song was written by Lee Mavers, frontman for the La's, a Liverpool band famous for being crack whores and making an album which inspired about half of the modern British music scene. Oh, and a little ditty entitled 'There She Goes'. And just so you know, the words of this song are quite different from the original lyrics – they're closer to how I first heard them (and those of the cover version by Sixpence None The Richer (I didn't plan this, seriously)).

Shout-Outs! That is, if there's anyone left to read 'em:

Ozodrac: But of course the trombone's a great instrument – I play it, don't I? Seriously though, glad you like it.

Frosteh: You don't really freak me out. It was just a result of when Ozodrac threatened to stop writing.

Jess: Yes, Edward is most definitely straight – that's something me and him _definitely_ share…

Mcjack: Why thank you sir!

Mcjack: Weren't you here a moment ago?

DYRWTKA: Thanks! Always glad to get new fans. And yes, the filks are (for now) just about the Watch, but I am planning to write other fics about other characters in the Discworld universe.

Jennifer Jolie: Not yet, love. I'll only marry them off if 1) Pterry does it in canon or 2) Pterry dies without marrying them off (God forbid…). I'm afraid I'm kind of a canon whore when it comes to non-OC relationships…

Aaanyways… On with the filk!

* * *

THERE SHE GOES

Pseudopolis Yard wasn't quiet at the best of times. Any building used daily by upwards of a hundred people spread out round the clock will have a noise level that never falls below 'loud murmur', and Pseudopolis Yard had seen more than it's fair share of No. 32's 1). If you have to sleep there, you either get used to it or go insane 2).

Even so, you do have to draw the line somewhere.

"Turston!" bellowed Edward Blankwall, hammering on the bedroom door. "Get your good-for-nothing backside out here now!"

"What's the problem?" said Constable Verity Brown, coming up the corridor. "What's he done now?"

"Woken me up," muttered Edward darkly, mistaking her condescending tone for something approaching his own fury. He thumped the door again. "TURSTON!"

The person on the other side of the door called out "Oh, goh bea' up a granneh, yeh lobser!" 3)

Edward thumped the door much harder than before. "Yer wanna cum ou' 'ere an' say that ter me face, yer soddin' Fenc!" 4) 5)

"Edward…" said Verity, quietly.

"Wha- oh…" Edward went a whiter shade of pale.6) "Sorry, Verity, I keep on forgetting you're from Sto Femmin…"

"It's alright, Edward."

"I mean, you don't exactly sound like one…"

"We're not all like Turston, you know!"

"Ah mean, I don' sound like a Lobser tha' much, so I can' talk…"5)

"Just let me go in there, Edward. Maybe I can get him to calm down a bit."

"Oh… er… sorry…"

Edward slunk back into his room, and Verity knocked and went into the one next door. The figure sat hunched at the end of the bed turned and gave her a look that would have led to the disbandment of gurning competitions the universe over had it been made public. 7)

"You orkey?" she said.

"Do ah luk it?" he replied, sardonically.

"Nor, yer dorn't," she said. "Wat's up?" (Author's note: I'm getting tired of writing in dialect all the time, just pretend I've put on some kind of translator thing so I can write in English).

"It's just…" Turston sighed and began pacing around the room. "I keep on trying to get my music to sound how I want it to, but I can't! It's driving me mad!"

"Is that why Edward was so mad? Because your music woke him up?"

"No, Edward's mad because me throwing my guitar against the wall knocked the shelf off his wall and onto his head. And woke him up."

Verity stifled a giggle. "But your music sounds great! Everyone says so…"

Turston laughed sarcastically. "Oh, it's good, I'll give you that," he said, "but it's not _great_."

"Well, how do you define greatness?"

"Interesting question, but I-"

"No, I mean how do _you_, James Turston, define greatness? What do you think makes something great?"

Turston sighed. "Well… you know about five years ago? When they started running the stage from Sto Femmin to Barrerpool regularly again?" 8)

"Oh, yeah," said Verity, in the voice of someone who is 'reminiscing'. "My dad kicked up a fuss about that… he hated 'bloody lobsers'."

"Who didn't?" said Turston. "Anyway, I was bored, and all my mates were busy, so one evening I just got the coach to Barrerpool. Thought I'd get beaten up soon as I opened my mouth – I thought Lobsers were all violent scumbags who'd kill you for a bag of chips – but I lived long enough to make it to a club in the city centre. The Canvas Club, it was called – dingy, sweaty, full of young lads off the ships – Lobsers call that part of town the Canvas Quarter, it's just down the road from the docks, y'see – and I just got myself a drink and sat in the corner."

"And that's it? That's greatness? Sitting in the corner with a drink?"

"Let me finish!"

"I was only saying…" said Verity, sulkily.

"Yeah, well…" said Turston. "As I was saying, I got a drink and sat in the corner and no-one hit me, which as far as I was concerned was a miracle, and then this band called The Ey's came onstage. Well, fair enough, I thought, might as well check out the music scene while I'm here. And then they started playing this song…"

"And?"

"Can't really remember that much of the gig itself, but I can remember I was sitting on the coach back home that night and this music was just running round and round inside my head. It was life-changing – I mean, I'd heard music-with-rocks-in before now, I'd learnt to play guitar a year or so before, but that…" he stopped and sighed. "It was like having the top of my head opened and someone dropping ice cubes on my brain. Nothing I'd written could even think of sounding as good as that!"

"Did you ever go to see them again?" said Verity.

Turston Frowned. "No," he sighed. "I told my mates about them, and they went and saw them themselves, but I went back a few months later – back to the Canvas – and I asked the guy behind the bar and he said they'd broken up the month before. Big fight, apparently." He stared out of the window. "I wonder what happened to them…"

Verity glanced at her watch. "Oh blimey, I've got to go," she said. "I'm on duty in half an hour."

"See you later," said Turston.

"See you," said Verity, closing the door behind her.

* * *

1. No. 32: Being Naughtily Drunk And Singing Out Of Tune During The Opera – they insist on serving unlimited sweet sherry during the interval.

2. This misleadingly implies that getting used to it and going insane are mutually exclusive at Pseudopolis Yard.

3. Lobser – person from Barrerpool. If used by a fellow Lobser, it's a term of endearment. If used by a Fenc 4), it's an incitement to violence.

4. Fenc – person from Sto Femmin (see 3)).

5. Edward tended to slip into a Lobse accent when he got excited. He tried explaining why, but people tended to get lost about halfway through his twenty-minute lecture.

6. If there are any Procol Harum fans out there – Sorry.

7. Gurning – professional face-pulling.

8. Barrerpool and Sto Femmin are neighbouring cities on the Sto Plains. Their relationship for most of the past 2000 years is best described as 'literally, don't even go there – but they're better than those … from …'. It is similar to all common love-hate relationships between two rival cities (c.f. Liverpool and Manchester, Glasgow and Edinburgh, Central New York and Suburban New York, London and everywhere, Birmingham and Birmingham etc.).

* * *

It was several hours later.

"So," said Angua, "did you find out about what Turston's problem was?"

"Oh, you know," said Verity, sipping her pint, "music things. He found a band that was better than his."

The two watchmen had retreated into a pub not far from the Shades to escape a sudden downpour, which had escaped from the university and was wandering around the city of its own accord 1).

"Which band?"

"The Ey's, I think. Lobsers."

"Who?"

Verity had to double-take to stop her from giving her friend a rather unpleasant look. She reminded herself that Angua was from Uberwald, and they didn't bother with diminutives on the whole – you were generally too busy running from something to nickname the place you were running from. "Barrerpuldians," she replied.

"Ah," said Angua, in the tone of voice that suggested she just didn't get the whole concept. The two sat in silence for a while.

"Verity?" said Angua after a while.

"Yeah?"

"Remind me why you originally joined the Watch again?"

Verity looked shocked. "What's that got to do with anything?" she said, irritably.

"Just wondering, that's all," said Angua non-committally, not looking her friend in the eye.

"Why?"

"Just tell me, Constable…"

"How is it relevant?"

"Just answer the _question,_ Verity!"

Verity looked sullenly at the table and muttered something.

"I didn't hear that…" said Angua in a sing-song voice.

"… Because…"

"Yes?"

"… I fancied Edward Blankwall…" Verity looked up. "There! I admitted it! Again! Even though you _plainly_ hadn't forgotten! Now what purpose does this discussion serve?"

Angua's expression of shock lasted all of a moment; it was immediately replaced with one of careful intrigue. "Just wondering if you found it difficult trying to keep the middle ground between those two."

Verity rolled her eyes. "Believe me, it'd be _so_ much easier if those two didn't insist on winding each other up." She sighed. "But Edward loses his temper too easily, and James seems to positively revel in seeing how far he can push him. And the worst thing is, _I_ know neither of them mean it, but they each think the other does."

"I was surprised you didn't take Turston's side," said Angua. "I mean, you do come from the same city, after all…"

"But that's just it – we don't! I'm from Screwdon, not Sto Femmin! Okay, in terms of nationality we're both Femnian, but it's the difference between you and Cheery – yes, you're both from Uberwald, but you're from Bonk and Cheery's from near Lipwig, right?"

"That sounds about right," said Angua. "As far as anyone can tell, anyway. Dwarfs tend to describe the location of their homes in relation to the nearest coal seam."

"But you aren't from the _same_ place, are you?"

"No, of course not-"

"You see?"

"So basically, you're a citizen of Sto Femmin, but you aren't _from_ Sto Femmin itself?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Verity looked out of the window. "Rain's gone off," she said. "Shall we go back?"

Angua checked her watch. "Might as well, shift's almost over."

"Really?"

"No, but we'd probably better tell Mister Vimes about that rogue cloudburst."

"Surely he'll already know?"

"Probably, but it can't hurt to make sure. Besides, it's bloody freezing out in the wind."

* * *

1) Attempts to teach the students weather control usually had this effect.

2) Unlikely, I know, but Verity hadn't been feeling quite right that day. She must've been ill, to fancy Edward.

* * *

It was half an hour later.

Verity walked along the corridor from Vimes' office towards her room. It was quite quiet – everyone else was on duty, obviously. Then someone, started singing, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Her yelp of shock must have been quite loud, as the singing cut off abruptly and Edward's face appeared round the door of his room.

"Are you okay?" he said, sounding slightly guilty.

"What are you doing here?" she snapped. "I thought everyone was out on duty now…"

"Unusual circumstances," said Edward. "Got a call-out to an All Officers in the Plaza of Broken Moons. Bloody wizards…" he muttered.

"Didn't get that," said Verity, feeling guilty herself. Edward didn't seem to notice.

"Yeah, well, by the time we'd finished there was only half an hour left on my shift, so Vimesy let me go off shift and dry off before I caught a cold. He made Turston go out early, too," he added, smiling slightly. "Er… d'you… want to come in?" he said, nervously. 1)

"Yeah, sure." Verity went in, and Edward shut the door behind her. "What song was that you were singing?" she asked.

"Oh, just something I used to play when I was in my band back in Barrerpool," Edward replied. "My mate wrote it, in fact."

"It sounds great," enthused Verity. "Who's it about?"

"Well," said Edward, "since you asked…"

* * *

_Flashback _

The young man looked up as a shadow fell across his book. Or, rather, two shadows.

"Hey Thom," he said, "Sean."

"A'right, Eddie," said Thom.

"'Right, Ed," said Sean. "Listen, we need a favour-'

"Looking for another guitarist?" said Edward.

"Who told you?"

"No-one," said Edward. "I worked it out. You two change band members more often than Thom changes his socks-"

"Hey!"

"- I can play guitar a bit, and there's two of you standing there holding what I can only assume is meant as a bribe."

"It's a bar of chocolate!"

"A tube of Chocolate Round Things, actually, probably the NoThingfjord recipe version which just so happens to be my favourite kind? You just bought that, entirely by coincidence?" Edward leaned back. "Just 'cos I'm a copper doesn't mean you can pull the wool over my eyes, lads. Come on, I've known you for _years_! You only had to ask!"

"So… you'll do it, then?" said Thom. Edward sighed, and tried to hit him across the back of the head, but Thom was too quick for him and ducked.

"So is that a 'yes' then?" he said mischievously, while Edward just sighed and rolled his eyes.

* * *

"Hey, guess what!"

It was a month since Edward had joined the band, and quite a bit had happened. Sean and Thom had decided to rent a practice room, and had instead found a quite nice premises in Dead Duck which served as both practice space for the band and a home for Sean, Thom and whichever of their friends wanted a bed for the night. It wasn't far from the Watch House on Side Lane, where Edward and indeed the entire Barrerpool Watch was based.

"Yes, Sean?" said Edward, who was sitting on the moth-eaten sofa, aimlessly strumming his guitar. "Have you written another classic song?"

"Oh no," said Sean, smiling. "This one isn't a classic."

"Really?"

"This one's _legendary_."

"Oh."

"Anyway, just play me a G-D-C9 sequence under this tune when I tell you, okay?"

"Sure…"

It took several attempts, none of which were anything near right, before Sean gave up.

"Look, just shut up and listen, will yer? Holy Saint Nick…"

Sean sat down and played the short opening line he'd tried to play before, before dropping into the chords. Then, he began to sing.

"There she goes,

There she goes again,

Racin' through my brain,

And I just can't contain,

This feelin' that remains."

Edward, completely of his own accord, now began dropping in backing vocals.

"There she goes," "There she goes again"

"There she goes again,""There she goes again"

"Waltzin' through my brain,

And I just can't contain,

This feelin' that remains,

There she goes,

There she goes again,

She calls my name,

Calls my name,

No-one else can feel my pain,

And I just can't contain,

This feelin' that remains."

"There she goes," "There she goes again"

"There she goes again,""There she goes again"

"Chasin' down my lane,

And I just can't contain,

This feelin' that remains,

"There she goes," "There she goes again"

"There she goes," "There she goes again"

"There she goes." "There she goes again."

"Wow", said Edward.

"Well, whaddaya think?" said Sean.

"Wow," repeated Edward. "I'm amazed. That's bloody brilliant!"

"Yeah, I know," said Sean. "I've got a good feeling abou- hey, whaddaya mean, 'I'm amazed'?"

* * *

Unfortunately, Sean's good feeling didn't last.

"Gods, that was a good gig," said Edward, putting his guitar down and throwing his jacket into a corner.

"Yeah, it was alright," said Sean. His voice took on a sneer. "Woulda bin even better if _someone_ could play the bloody bass…"

Thom looked up at him. "What - the ---- - are you on about," he said, steel glinting in his voice and in his eye.

"You, you bloody muppet," snarled Sean. "I have never heard that bass-line on 'Feelin'' played worse. My granddad could play it better and he lost his fingers in the _Royal Geoffery_ disaster!"

Edward caught the drummer's eye. He and Peter Surgick had been friends for years, and they knew, almost instinctively, when to leave their bandmates to it.

"T'Ovoid?"

"Yeah."

"Guys, we're going to the Ovoid. Catch us up when you've finished killing each other," called Edward. Sean and Thom apparently didn't hear him over their slanging match.

"How long d'you reckon they'll be?" said Peter, as the two of them walked down the corridor.

"Dunno," replied Edward. "If it's anything like last time then-"

His answer was cut off by a loud crash from the room behind them. The two boys shared a look, then dashed back to the room.

Peter put his head round the door, and narrowly missed being decapitated by a flying snare drum. Edward had his cheek grazed by a passing drum-stick.

Sean and Thom were going all-out in an attempt to wipe each other off the face of the planet. Anything that wasn't nailed down was a weapon, but the physical projectiles were nothing compared to the insults the two were flinging at each other. And Edward could see, there and then, that he'd lost his band. The feud between his friends had reached the point of no return.

"Come on," he said, shaking his head sadly, "let's go to the Ovoid."

_End Flashback_

* * *

"Wow," said Verity, wide-eyed. "So that's why you constantly go on about 'not having a band'?"

"Yeah."

"And why you keep on belting Sean over the head?"

"That's part of it, I suppose-"

"And why you two seem to be locked in some kind of war of attrition?"

"Don't be daft!" Edward put his guitar back on the stand. "I'm like that with _all_ my friends."

"What was your band called?"

"The Ey's, why?"

There was no reply for several seconds.

"Verity?"

"That's the band James was talking about!" exclaimed the girl. "Edward – go and tell him now!"

An expression of sheer horror flitted across Edward's face. "Wha- NO!" he yelled, slamming the door shut and turning to face Verity, panting and eyes wide.

"Edward?" said Verity, taken aback. "What's the problem?"

Edward stared at her for several seconds, while his mind ran around in a loop saying _don'tletherfindoutdon'tletherfindoutmakeupanexcusemakeupanexcuse!_

"Edward, what is the problem?" Verity glared at him, which seemingly cleared his mental block.

"Er… I… don't like people finding out because… er… I don't like the attention it brings," he stuttered. "Yeah, er, I try not to tell people in case I get besieged by 'em. Hate the attention, y'know…"

"Ri-ight," said Verity, making it clear she didn't believe a word of it, but couldn't think of any other conceivable reason why her friend would lie to her.

"So, y'know… let's just keep it between us, okay?"

Verity sighed. "Alright," she said. "For you." She walked out and closed the door behind her.

Edward sagged, and collapsed onto the bed.

_Well, you're hardly lying to her, are you? You always hated the attention,_ said his thoughts.

"So why does it feel like a lie?" murmured Edward to himself.

* * *

1. 

This wasn't because Edward knew Verity had fancied him. He was fine with that. He was just the kind of person who was nervous about asking a girl to come into his room. Hell, he was nervous enough about asking a girl her _name_.

* * *

Whew. Doesn't really feel like a filk, does it? There's a lot of character development going on here, along with _more_ original characters. A lot of this is left up in the air, I'll admit, but I'm hopefully going to get into some serious writing now (as in 'major projects' rather than 'no humour'), which will hopefully bring all these questions to a conclusion (and explain where the hell all these OC's are coming from, too). Don't worry though - I've got plenty of filks stockpiled, and all kinds of side-projects, so I'll be here for a while yet. And that's before we get started on that joint fic…

Ned, up to his eyeballs in catarrh – bloody colds…


End file.
